Black Clouds
by Fat Puppy
Summary: Sam hits the 'Hat Trick' of ailments, leaving his brother to look after him. (Season 13 after "A Most Holy Man")


**Title** : Black Cloud

 **Fandom** : Supernatural

 **Summary** : Sam hits the 'Hat Trick' of ailments, leaving his brother to look after him. (Season 13 after "A Most Holy Man")

* * *

Having partially run, partially slid down the hall on his socked feet, Dean crashed into Sam's room to find his brother on the floor, curled into the corner where the nightstand met the bed. His right foot, tangled in the sheet. The sheet itself, pulled cockeyed off the mattress.

"Sam, whada'ya doin' on the floor, man? I said call me if you needed help."

Sam's head was pressed hard into the corner as Dean untangled him.

"Did call you," he managed to mumble.

"Callin' me as you were physically fallin' off the damn bed doesn't count, dumb ass. What's goin' on with you?"

"Dunno. Achy all over. Flu? Had to puke."

Dean stopped to smell the…"Ah okay, yep. That's what I smell." His hand went Immediately to his brother's forehead. Fever. High. Great. First Sam's ongoing battle with at least some level of depression, then the nasty concussion, now the flu all piled right smack on top of each other.

"Brother, you have this little black cloud followin' you around. How's your…aw, damnit, Sam. Bashed your head on the nightstand, didn't you?" In the dim light, Dean spotted the trail of blood running from Sam's ear past his jawbone. It mixed nicely with the color and scent of vomit all over his gray tee shirt.

"Hit m'ear, I think."

"You did. Hang on." Grabbing the washcloth from Sam's sink, Dean wet it down and applied it to his ear. "Tell me if you need to get sick again. Gotta get you out of these clothes. Man, you stink."

Clean clothes were pulled from the dresser and Dean went to set them on the bed when he saw the mess there. Sam had been sick all over. He sighed and sat on the floor next to the miserable human that barely resembled his little brother.

"Sammy, I'm gonna have to get this cleaned up. Let's change you into something a little less disgusting and put you in my room for the rest of the night."

Sam leaned into the support. "Dean." Letting his head fell onto Dean's chest, Sam let himself be pulled toward his brother. Dean's arm wrapped securely around the slumped shoulders.

"Yeah, I know, Sammy."

"M'so tired."

Tired. It only touched the surface of what Sam really felt, but he didn't have the energy to deal in more detail. The depression had been feeding on him for months. The concussion suffered a few days ago was still giving him migraines, light sensitivity and occasional dizziness. And now the damned flu.

"I think you hit the Hat Trick, Sam. Three-pronged attack. And it sucks and you feel like hell and you just need a damn break. Yeah. I get it.

Sam mumbled something into Dean's chest, but as there weren't actual words, Dean didn't even try to respond. Instead, he sat with his fever-ridden, vomit-covered little brother on the floor of the dimly lit room until Sam had settled into a more relaxed state. Finally, between the heat radiating from Sam and the smell that had now infiltrated the entire room and had no doubt leaked into the hall, Dean had to get them vertical.

"Sammy, come on. Let's get you off the floor and smelling better." He pulled him up and temporarily sat him on the edge of the bed, a hand bracing against his shoulder to keep him from falling forward. "Stay put for a sec...okay." Long seconds later, Sam's arm went around Dean and they wandered to the bathroom where Dean closed the toilet lid and sat his brother down. The tee-shirt came off and a damp towel wiped down his arms and face. A clean tee-shirt went on. Same with the sleep pants. Dean figured he'd worry about the soiled clothes and bed sheets later. His next focus was getting Sam down the hall to his room.

"Dean, no." Sam protested as they entered the bedroom and Dean pushed him onto the mattress, placing a cold towel to his face.

"Yes, Sam. You're burnin' up, man. Can't let this thing get outta control. You've seen the news stories about how bad the flu is this year, especially for those with reduced immune systems. And lately...well, lets just say you qualify."

Sam pushed the towel away with a grunt.

"You are so gonna lose this battle, Sammy. It's either this or a cold shower. Take your pick."

"You wouldn't do that."

"Try me. I _have_ dunked you in a tub of ice before."

Too tired to test anything, and remembering that icy pain, Sam relented. "Towel's okay."

"I thought so."

A few minutes of that and Dean could tell that Sam felt a bit of relief. Enough so that he could leave him long enough to go and get the foul smelling laundry started.

"That smell, man, it's all the way down the hall now. I'm gonna go clean up. Here," Dean popped the top off the bottle of water from the nightstand and set it in Sam's hand. "Drink." A few swigs were swallowed before the bottle slid from his hand and Dean grabbed it back. "Okay, you stay here, don't even think about pukin' on my bed and yell if you need me. No, you should yell _before_ you need me. Your ear stopped bleedin', so there's one good thing. How's the headache?"

"Which one?" Sam cringed as his head touched the pillow.

Right. The migraine from the concussion or the throbbing from the whack to the nightstand. "That bad, huh?" Dean tucked the covers around his brother. A lifetime of looking out for him. A lifetime of trying to keep him safe. If nothing else, it made him an expert in making sure he was comfortable.

"Yeah, pretty bad," Sam said, without the necessary energy required to protest the mothering.

"Okay, I'll bring you some pain killers."

"Won't help."

"Probably not, but even if it takes the edge off, it'll be useful. Be right back."

It took Dean longer than anticipated to clean things up, getting the sheets and clothes started and find the pain killers. By the time he returned to his room, Sam was sleeping. It wasn't a peaceful sleep, but eyes were closed and breathing wasn't labored, so he decided not to wake him. Meds were set ready at the bedside. He opened the partially drunk water bottle and popped two pills for himself; his own headache already in progress. The stress of everything, including worrying about his little brother, had mutated into actual pain. It was typical, but this was their lives. He'd not blame Sam for it. Not ever. Not after all the crap he'd fought through in his lifetime. Things had to come crashing down at some point and although this wasn't total collapse, Dean needed to keep himself vertical and upright to contain any further crumbling.

A thought entered his mind then A silly one in the midst of the the crap load of unhealthy ones. He voiced it out loud to the slumbering form nearby as he sat in the beside chair. "Maybe we should get you a football helmet, Sam. Or a bubble. Just a big ole bubble around your head might just do the trick. Sure, you'd look more ridiculous than you already do, but no more head trauma, yeah? Can get one on eBay or something. An early Christmas present maybe."

A groan came from the bed as Sam twisted to be on his side, facing Dean.

"Of course, it'd to be a really _gigantic_ helmet to fit all that fancy hair underneath. Or, we could just shave your head. Would be less hot. You do sweat like a freakin' racehorse. Could be that mop on your head that's really to blame for it all."

Sam rustled his head deeper into the pillow. Another soft groan escaping, but he still seemed okay enough to leave be. Dean reached over to feel for fever again. Still too high. Fever. Headache. Vomiting. Body aches. Definitely the flu. Dean would be lucky if _he_ didn't get it now. He'd try and avoid it if he could or it'd be the sick caring for the sick and that never ended very well.

Dean grabbed his nearby tablet and pulled up Netflix to watch an episode of Magnum P.I. They'd recently gotten hooked on detective shows from the 80's and were slowly working their way through Season 3 of Magnum. The show was decent enough and a time killer with a cool car. And although Dean really didn't need to sit watch over his brother, the parent in him wouldn't allow him to leave. He'd been mother and father to Sam his entire childhood; an old habit that never really went away once Sam became self sufficient. And now, Dean having just turned forty...well, old lifelong habits died hard.

He stayed. He also made it through two and a quarter episodes of Magnum until his own lights went out and he fell asleep slumped down in the chair.

There was a feeling of someone talking to him, or maybe just a dream. He didn't know until it got more persistent and kept saying his name. And then after several long discombobulated seconds later, he startled awake and raised his head. "Sam?"

Sam was lying in the same position as when Dean last left him, but with eyes open.

"Hey, little brother, how you feelin'?"

Licking his lips, Sam motioned with his eyes toward the half drunk water bottle on the nightstand. "Thirsty. Couldn't reach. Sorry."

"Got it. Here, take the Tylenol while you're awake." Forcing himself upright, he took the drugs and a long drink of water. "Finish it. Fluids. I'll get you another one. I helped myself to half of that one while you were out."

Motioning this time toward the tablet in Dean's lap, Sam said "How many you'd get through?"

Dean smiled, his brother knowing him so well. "Two full episodes awake. The third I was fadin' in and out. You know, I can remember those days when you and me could make it through an entire night without even batting an eye. We're getting old, Sammy."

" _You're_ old. I still have a few years."

"Whatever."

Sam had pulled himself up and back against the headboard, watching Dean rubbing at his temples.

"Not gettin' sick, are you?"

"Not yet. Just a pounding head. I think I caught it from you."

"Can't catch a headache, Dean."

"Speaking of?"

"Tolerable. For the moment. I can go back to my room now."

"You can't, sheets never made it to the dryer. Just stay put until mornin'. The less movin' around the better. M'good in the chair."

"Liar."

"Dude, I have logged hundreds of hours in bedside chairs when it comes to you. I have officially perfected the art of chair-sleeping. They should give me a freakin' award or something."

"Braggin'?"

"Sure, it's all your fault though, being the pain in the ass that you are."

Sam sighed and gave an eye roll before letting them close.

"Hey, wake up. Finish the water before you conk out again."

Eyes flashed open. "Huh?"

Dean set the water bottle in his hand. "Drink. Then sleep." As if on automatic pilot, or a lifetime of allowing Dean took look after him, Sam did as he was told. The empty water bottle crinkled in his hand when Dean then took it away. "M'gonna go put the sheets in the dryer and get you another water."

Tired eyes floated open, "Then go find a bed and sleep. I can survive the rest of the night on my own."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll crash in Jack's room."

He did crash. And hard. He also woke up the next morning with the beginnings of the flu. Checking on Sam, Dean leaned hard on the door frame. Sam was lying on his side facing the door, looking horrible, but not any worse for the wear. Dean on the other hand...

"Dean, you look like hell. You got the flu."

"Yes. And it's completely your fault. Your damn little black cloud spawned overnight. I'd kick you the hell outta my bed if I had the energy. Your bed is functional again however. I'll take it. I'll see you in about four days."

Sam began to pull himself from under the warm covers. "I know how this goes, Dean. When we're both sick, it gets ugly. You know how we go at each other's throats when the both of us get nailed. I'm good enough to go back to my own room."

"Sure, now that the sheets are clean."

"Give me an hour and I can have yours done." Sam was up now, squinting away from the hallway light, his head-aching migraine still a constant companion.

Seeing that his brother was still dealing with the effects of the concussion, Dean waved him off. "Nah, I'm good. Grab another bottle of water while you're up. One for me too. How'd I come down with this crap so quick? You only got sick yesterday."

"Water bottle."

"What?"

"Water bottle. You drank outta my water bottle."

"Damn it, Sam. You didn't think to tell me not to?"

"No, Dean, I didn't take time out of my busy schedule of puking, migraines and depression symptoms to think, 'no, don't drink that flu water!'"

"Yeah, well, you should have. Always gettin' me sick. Ever since you were a baby, man. Cough on me, sneeze on me. Green, slimy snot and what not. I'd be down with a cold for a week after that. Still had to look after you though. You were a needy kid, Sam. And disgusting. Here." Dean handed Sam a pair of sunglasses as he scuffed by him. "For your walk to your room."

Sam huffed out a laugh. "I'd probably survive the 20 second walk to my bedroom."

"You would, but migraines suck, so..."

"Yeah. They do. Thanks."

"See ya when I see ya, Sammy. I'm going down for the count."

Dean crawled into his bed, thankful for the warmth left behind. He didn't have to deal with those first ten minutes of freezing before his body heat warmed the sheets.

At the door, Sam put on the sunglasses. "I look ridiculous."

"You do, but you always do." Dean tucked himself deeper into the bed. "You can leave now. I need to suffer in silence."

"Yes, I know all too well how you get when you're sick and I'd rather not be part of it."

"Yeah, yeah, out you go. Oh, and Sam? Take your freakin' little black cloud with you. Once I am rested and upright again, we are hunting something. Don't care what it is. If I have to stay stuck in this bunker any longer..."

"Uh huh. Whatever." Sam walked away.

Dean pulled the blankets over his head. Down for the count and sound asleep in three minutes.

* * *

The end


End file.
